3503 

57 

L4 

>y 1 


Summer fjuv[ES 


AND 

SlxEIQtJBEIiLi CRIMES 


UNCLE tfo 









-Read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 

And lend to the ryhme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 


And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 

—Longfellow. 


I > 
*13 


SUMNER, IOWA 
PRESS OF THE GAZETTE 
1914 






































































DEAR READER 

The kindly reception given “Stories in Rhyme by Uncle Ho,” 
and urgent inquiries as to when more verses were to be published, 
have hurried me in the preparation of “Summer Rimes and Sleigh- 
bell Chimes,” which I take pleasure in placing before you herein. 

1 trust this little volume will find a place in your affections even 
more welcome than “Stories in Rhyme,” as the subjects and senti¬ 
ments treated are of greater diversity. 

1 am now at work revising some of my more important Indian 
legends, as well as a variety of my other earlier verse, together 
with some newly written poems, which will eventually appear in 
“Iowa Legends and Lyrics,” from the Sumner Gazette press. 

It has been my ambition and my dream to do “poetic justice” 
to the many places of extraordinary natural beauty in Iowa, but 
demands upon my time from the pressure of my newspaper and 
printing business have been so constant and exacting through past 
years that I haven’t been able to visit as many as I would like of the 
beauty spots of our beloved State, nor have I had many undisturbed 
hours in which to quietly pursue the work of rythmic and metrical 
composition. However, as long as I have the gift of poesy, in 
moments here and there I will tune my harp to sing the praise of 
Iowa, along with other subjects and sentiments dear to my heart, 
trusting that the future will be more generous in opportunities to 
court the muse, to visit places of interest in the Hawkeye State, and 
to study more fully her history, her resources and her interests, to 
the end that I may be able to set forth her glories more abundantly. 

Yours truly, 

“UNCLE HO.” 

Sumner, Iowa, Sept. 1, 1914. 



© Gl. A 3 8 0 5 9 5 

Copyrighted 1914 
By Homer P. Branch 


SEP 28 1914 







HOMER P. BRANCH 
“Uncle Ho” 




















Vmix£ f % Tlynu^lyt 


A cadence enchanting on the echoes is sweeping 

In voluptwous, life-thrilling strains, thro’ the vale; 
Its beauty, its wildness, its laughing, its weeping, 
Pulsate in grand tremors for e’er on the gale. 

A various story it tells in its sobbing, 

Of hearts sich and weary, of hearts madly throbbing: 
A beautiful story it tells in its laughing, 

Of souls full of sweetness, of glory and gladness, 
And charms of love-nectar that gay souls are 
quaffing— 

Of sunlearns e’er chasing the shadows of sadness! 
’Tis the hallowed music of Poetry’s Thought, 

Its gracious enchantments come ever unsought. 




6 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 



I sat by the window at daybreak 
As the wildbirds carroled the hour, 
And watched the shades of the night 
time 

Droop ’neath the morning’s power, 
And as the banners of sunrise 

Flung their colors above the trees, 
The burst of light charmed the bird- 
notes 

Into sweeter melodies. 

The wren, the linnet and robbin, 

The oriole, cat bird and jay, 

And all the choir of the treetops, 
Spiritedly sang and gay, 

And with notes unknown to mortals, 
With harmonies as grandly fair 
As the soul’s unuttered music, 

They piped on the morning air. 

The daybreak’s freshness and grand¬ 
eur, 

And the songs of the happy birds, 
Commingled a tender beauty 


That cannot be told in words, 

And a gladness settled o’er me 

That lifted me out of the cares 
That yesterday bore upon me 

In the burden of affairs. 

And my heart communed with angels 
On the sacred memories massed 
In the stalls of recollection 
Scattered all along the past, 

And the future’s brilliant finger 
In a beckoning gesture shined, 

A strange, glad impulse awaking, 
That cannot be defined. 

O the glory of the morning, 

And the wildbird’s heaven-made 
song! 

O the good that is created 
To take the place of w r rong! 

But the fondest hours of lifetime, 
And the gladdest moments e’en, 

Do they teach us always, sweetheart, 
The love of the Great Unseen? 



I lay me down to morbid sleep, 
While the spirits of the night, 

Out upon their somber flight, 

Their silent, gloomy watches keep. 

I pass into a murky mist, 

And without desire to resist 
Float on through dismal routs, 

Now having fears and doubts. 

I am afflicted with a freezing dread, 
And heaviness seems resting o’er my 
head. 

A stifling universal cyclone flings 
Abroad a craze of ugly, unlike, 
things. 


Down a steep hill I am impelled, 

And from destruction am withheld 
By the same power that with sullen 
force 

Hurries me onward in my course. 

The ground which I traverse is split 
With yawning gulfs, and as I flit, 
And leap and dodge along, I see 
Wild eyes peer upward at me fur¬ 
tively, 

Wistfully and fiercely from these 
dark holes, 

Vv hich seem to be a hell of wretched 
souls. 












SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


Mighty clouds and a roaring sound 
Rush in upon the dull profound. 

I stand upon the heated rim 
Of a lake of lashing fire, 

Where loathsome reptiles, living, 
swim, 

With hideous writhings dire. 

White skeletons are dancing in 
The air and rattling their loose 
bones 

In fierce, fantastic glee, the din 
Made more horrible by the moans. 

Of myriads of ghastly shapes 
That rise and fall upon the gale, 
Struggling to catch a monster, pale, 
That constantly their grasp escapes, 
And seems for e’er to flee 
Toward a fast receding sea. 

The dizzy earth is rent asunder 
By a blast of deafening thunder, 

And numbed by cold paralysis 
I’m hurled into a dark abyss, 

Where I seem to float for years 
In somnolent atmospheres. 

A hideous beast, with broad-flapping 
wings, 

And voice that with satanic fury 
rings, 

Grasps me within his black, repuls¬ 
ive arms. 


And fills my confused soul with 
weird alarms. 

The beast now roars that he does 
devour 

All things that come within his 
power. 

His ugly, mighty jaws expand, 

My face by his fould breath is 
fanned. 

And sharp as daggers drawn from 
sheath 

Gleam his great and swordlike teeth. 
Wildly I look abroad 
And gasp a prayer to God. 

A silver light breaks in upon the 
scene, 

The monster in bewildered rage 
grows green. 

Now pale, now vanishes, entire, 

In a flame of consuming fire. 

All terror ceases now, 

I feel upon my brow 
The kiss of a cool breeze; 

I rub my eyes, and sneeze, 

And yawn, and stretch, and look 
around, 

And nothing see here to confound. 

I guess from present looks 
I’ve been among the spooks 
In the Land of Nod, for sure as sight, 
’Tis morning! I’ve been dreaming 
over night! 







Nothing like fa winter’s night, 
When the stars are extra bright, 

In Iowa; 

If the sleighing it is fine, 

Or the moon makes out to shine, 
And you hold her hand in thine, 
In Iowa. 






































































8 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


Hxttmuw 


Brownie Boy, out in the snow! 

That’s what makes the rascal grow! 
Yes, for boyhood’s greatest sports 
Are playing snowball, building forts, 
Charging through snowbanks with 
glee, 

Wading, plunging joyously, 

Mittens soaked and feet sopwet— 
Catching cold? O no, don’t fret! 
Young blood warm with healthful 
play 

Wards off sickness any day. 

Early childhood is the time, 

In this hardy, rugged clime, 

To “toughen up” a likely lad, 

Make him manly, like his dad; 
Brother big, or hero great, 

Whoe’er he wants to imitate. 
Nothing does this like hard play 
From morning until close of day; 
Weather bad or weather good, 

Hard play builds up hardihood. 

Wjhen the snow comes floating down 
Over woods and fields and town, 
Great flakes floating light and fair, 
Filling all the silent air, 

Fondled by the gentle breeze, 
Lodging on the roofs and trees, 
Dropping from the dim, gray sky 
Onto every passer by, 

Mantling all the earth with white, 
Making it a pretty sight, 

Then the playful Brownie Boy 
Looks abroad with bounding joy, 
Dons his cap and in a trice 
Is out in this new paradise, 

For the Almighty Father knows 
That all the flowers that He grows 
In torrid land or summer time, 

And all His charms of warmer clime, 

In inspiration are below 

The beauty of His falling snow; 


And when the mighty winds arise 
How the falling snow it flies. 

Filling all the whitened land 
With a tumult wild and grand. 

What, my boy, if it grows cold, 
Should that strike terror to the 
bold? 

No, no! it is Old Winter sere, 

It is our climate so severe, 

That makes our northern lad and 
man 

Leaders, ever in the van, 

With zest for life and enterprise 
And all the good that in them lies. 

Brownie Boy, young friend of mine. 
Let us look without a whine 
Into the blizzard’s biting teeth, 

And believe it far beneath 
Our grit and hardihood to scold 
At Old Winter’s nipping cold, 

Or to wish to spend our days 
In the enervating rays 
Of tropic suns, or in a land 
Ever by warm breezes fanned, 

Lands where skating is not known, 
Lands outside the sleighing zone, 
Lands where lads can never know 
The joy of playing in the snow. 

Nor catching onto bobs, and such—- 
Those lands are not for us—not 
much! 

Frosty mornings, when the sheen 
Of rime upon the trees is seen, 
Glistening on roof and wall, 

On ’phone poles and flagstaff tali, 
Fence and highway, fields and town. 
Clean and white as fleecy dow T n— 
Cold and snappy, though, O my! 

See the frest-flakes as they fly!— 

Then is when the Brownie Boy 
Fullest is of pulsing joy. 





SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


9 


Hi! here comes a bunch of boys, 
Putting up a jolly noise. 

Ah! here also comes a dray, 
Prancing team, big, fat and bay. 

“All aboard, and come along!” 
Shouts the drayman, good and 
strong. 

“Hear the invitation—hey? 

He’s a good one, and his sleigh 
Is big enough to hold the gang. 

My! just hear those sleighbells 
clang! 

Hullyjee! now aint this fun? 

Horses they just want to run! 

Why! he goes clear down the street! 
Quit a steppin’ on my feet! 

Here’s the depot! WJioa! He 
stopped 

bo suddenly I almost flopped. 

Now jump off, he says, be quick! 
Thank you, mister, you’re a brick.” 

“Here comes another team and sled; 
All jump on, now, don’t be dead! 
Sakes! that old chump he is mean, 
Crankiest I’ve ever seen, 

Whippin’ kids plum off his sleigh, 
And yellin’ cuss-words thataway! 
Guess he never was a lad, 

Or he wouldn't get so mad.” 


“Here comes Farmer Jones—and 
say! 

Grab the back end of his sleigh; 
Welcome, if you get a hold! 

Ouch! my fingers they are cold. 
Here’s a corner! Hang on! Whee! 
Kept a holt though—joy to me! 

Mr. Jones he is O. K. 

Never drives us from his sleigh.” 

“There’s the school bell, let us go 
Like Injins, single file, just so; 

Get there, fellows, every soul— 

Let the school house be our goal.” 

This is just a passing glimpse 
Of these—do you call them imps? 
Rattle-heads who cannot climb 
To honors high, if given time? 

No, sir, no! from out that crowd 
Of frisky youngsters, wild and loud, 
A president may come some day, 

Or scientist both sage and gray, 
Merchant prince or stockman great, 
Engineer or high prelate, 

Orator or editor, 

Captain of man-of-war, 

Statesman, judge, philanthropist, 

Or e’en a greater, better list 
Of goodly men than you and I 
Who love the boys, might prophesy. 



Ah, good fairies freely mingle 
With the sleighbells ias they jingle 
In Iowa; 

And when the weather it is cold, 

They cheer the heart and make us bold 
And brave and strong, and pure as gold 
In Iowa. 









































































10 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


T tying |^ggg 


Sweetest reveries and trances 
Through my happy senses roll 
As I dwell within the glances 
Of thine eyes, 

And the light of love advances, 

And shines full upon my soul, 

While a thousand.\ pleasant fancies 
Fall and rise. 

Ah the golden light embraces, 

With a passionate delight , 

All the scintillating graces 
Of thine eyes, 

And their beauty interlaces 

With strange visions, glad and bright, 
Of seraphim winging races 


In the shies. 



SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


11 


1 

CVtruwr rr 

Imwa on j&f 

xxxnx 



These here poets that awaken. 

Only when their wits air shaken 
By fine changes in the weather, 
They ain’t wuth a blue jay’s feather; 
For with all their fancy ravin’ 

’Bout the springtime’s good behavin, 
’Bout the glory o’ the roses 
And the other early posies, 

’Bout the lovesick lovers roamin’ 

In the moonlight and the gloamin’— 
And all sichlike gush and feelin’, 
Meant tew be extra appealin’— 

They don’t touch ye—only try tew; 
They are not the bards tew tie tew! 

Give tew me the poet songster 
Whose big, honest hearts belongs ter 
All the seasons, dry or rainy, 

And I want him sound and brainy. 
Poets they ain’t wuth a splinter 
If they can’t sing of the winter, 

And the autumn and the summer. 
And that poet, he’s a hummer 
Who can take a day that’s dreary, 
Tone it up and make it cheery, 
Throw a dash o’ fun and laughter 


Intew it and the day after! 

Jest considers it a duty 
Drawin’ of the grace and beauty 
From the storm, and cloudy weather, 
Cold snap, anything, or whether 
Roses bloom or snow is blowin’. 
Always cheerful, always crowin’. 

If a bard refines my daughter 
Jest as reg’lar poets ought ter; 

If a bard can be a mentor 
Tew my hired man or renter, 

Coax my boys tew love their mother, 
Daddy, sister, and each other; 

Make us with our lot contented 
’Stid o’ drivin’ us demented; 

Give us all an inspiration, 

Here and over all the nation; 

Lift us up with splendid teachin’, 
Deep and wide, yes, and far-reachin’; 
Knows a good thing when he sees 
it, 

Melts the heart and then don’t 
freeze it— 

He’s the poet whose spring writin’ 

I can read and take delight in. 





A saintly soul is ev’r giving 

Thro’ the sunlight and the mist, 
In the Valley of the Living, 

All on which our hearts insist; 

All the joy and happiness, 

All the outlets from distress, 

All that makes our sorrows less, 

All that heart can wish—the core 
Of her never ending store! 

She is Love, forevermore. 










































































12 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 



Flittud t 


She flitted past! Her golden hair 
Floated above a face as fair 
As e’er was looked upon— 

I never thought sun could arise 
On such sweet lips and such blue eyes, 
But hold! for she is gone! 

Thus come our joys, as fleet they go, 
Again we’re face to face ivith woe; 

But cheer thy heart, old boy! 
There’s always beauty flitting by, 
With pretty Ups and laughing eye, 

A world of love and joy. 

Enjoy the beauty that goes past, 
Don’t look for happy scenes to last, 
They’d; spoil us bye omd bye; 

If nil the world were bright and gay, 
And if ive always had our way, 

We’d sigh for tragedy. 



SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


13 


Tl jz Sawk;e:e Vtinttss 


An Indian Legend of the Nishna- 
botna. 


The gentle Wee-wa-ha-wa stood 
Within the shade of an oaken wood 
Beside a murmuring brook, 

And long she strained her jet black 
eyes 

Afar toward the western skies 
With earnest, searching look. 

She was the Sawkees’ pet and pride; 
Ne’er on the sunny, bright hillside 
Had ran a girl so fair, 

In all the nation great and wild; 

She was the old chief’s only child, 
Princess and royal heir. 

But recently beside the grave 
Of Leaping Elk, the war chief brave, 
In sorrow she had knelt— 

Strong Leaping Elk, her father 
proud, 

Now slumbering in death’s cold 
shroud— 

Oh darkly sad she felt! 

Out of the West her lover bold, 

The young brave whom her father 
old 

Had held in best regard, 

Would come from the war with the 
Pawnees, 

Would come with fame not wen with 
ease, 

But fighting fierce and hard— 

Come home to take the name of chief, 
And to assuage his people’s grief 
Over their old chief dead; 

Come home to cheer the maiden’s 
heart— 

The pretty Wee-wa-ha-wa’s heart 
And then the maid to wed. 


Beyond the hill’s receding swell 
Each noonday she looked long and 
well, 

Far up the wartrail’s way; 

Three midday’s watching there she 
stood, 

A golden angel in the wood, 
Impatient of delay. 

From o’er the hill, wild, proud and hale, 
The stark war-braves swept down 
the trail 

From out the boundless west, 

And at their head the chieftain young, 
The strong and stalwart We-be- 
bung, 

The bravest and the best. 

Foremost to meet them ran the maid, 
An instant then the warrior stayed 
From his careering speed, 

And caught her of divinest charms 
And fondly bore her in his arms 
Campward upon his steed. 

The twain to all were much endeared; 
The braves and women loudly 
cheered: 

O hail to Wee-ba-nung! 

Hail to the Wee-wa-ha-wa bird! 
Hail to every Sawkee’s word! 

' O hail to old and young! 

Then came the joyous wedding feast; 
From north and south, from west 
and east, 

Came every proud Sawkee, 

To eat, to sing, to shout and dance, 
To hurl the tomahawk and lance 
In gallant, sportive glee. 




14 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


And neighboring chiefs of all degrees 
Joined in the gay festivities— 

The Pottawatamies, 

Osages and the Omahas, 

With retinues of braves and squaws, 
All friends of the Sawkees. 

Ne’er came a new chief into power 
Amid the applause of brighter hour, 
Nor charming princess wed 
A nobler or more valliant brave, 

For ne’er did plume of warrior wave 
Upon a worthier head. 

And never had an Indian chief 
E’er rescued from the pall of grief 
A maiden more sublime. 

Nor ruled a stancher, braver race. 
With firmer hand or better grace, 

In any place or time. 

E’er mindful of his tribe, and proud 
That o’er their fame no evil cloud 
Had e’er a shadow thrown, 

It was his constant wish and will 
To make their standing better still, 
Better than they had known. 

Chief Wee-ba-nung was a hunter 
strong, 

Could chase the fleet elk all day long. 
And close with the brown bear 
In reckless clutch, and with his knife 
Bring end unto the great brute’s life 
Within its trodden lair. 


He’d meet straightway without excuse 
The fiercest panther or bull moose, 
And make him stand at bay, 

And from his bow could send a dart, 
Unerring through the roebuck’s heart 
A dozen rods away. 

No rider held unbroken horse 
More capably within its course; 

The tipping, light canoe, 

Rode smoothly, stanchly, when his 
oar 

compelled it from the grassy shore 
To plow the waters through. 

In battle he was brave, and wise 
In time of peace. The nation’s size 
Grew under his control 
Till villages of the Sawkees 
By hundreds counted their tepees— 
Proud was the great chief’s soul. 

He loved to see papooses play 
In childish frolic wild and gay, 

And much enjoyed the fun 
And sporting of the larger youth 
In rush-and-tumble, bold, uncouth, 
And contest stoutly done. 

And dignifiedly gave the prize 
To the lad who won in enterprise 
Where patience, strength and wit, 
And movement quick and cunning 
skill 

Gave to the game a helpful thrill, 
And growing muscles knit. 



How cheery are the ides of spring, 
When the skylarks are awing 
In Iowa; 

When the johnny-jump-ups smile 
Up at you as you climb the stile 
To go a fishing for a while, 












SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGIIBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


15 


But while he heartened the athlete, 
To wisdom’s son he gave a seat 
At every council fire, 

And oft he spoke a moral word 
That his young men in defference 
heard; 

It bettered his empire. 

Chief Wee-ba-nung no wanton war 
Waged on the other nations, nor 
Allowed internal strife 
To waste in number his young men; 
Savannah, forest, hill and glen, 
Were blessed v/ith peaceful life. 

And Wee-wa-ha-wa, noble bride, 
Was reverenced both far and wide 
For gracious acts and true; 
Farfamed the loveliest of squaws, 


A queen in every way she was— 
•Strong with her tribe she grew. 

They lived and blessed, the chief 
and wife, 

A happy, long, domestic life, 

And one by one there came 
Papooses to their tented home 
For shelter ’neath its rawhide dome, 
To eat the hunted game. 

The two lived on till ripe old age 
Paid them in full the sure wage 
Of time, and their full years 
Closed like some sweet and wildered 
dream. 

By Nishnabotna’s winding stream— 
The stream their name endears. 



1 Y i 

rxtnxt xn j 

IremruHrd 


(Written For My Friends, 
the Children.) 


After my day’s work was ended. 

All the broken moments mended, 

I sat down before my blazing 
Office fire, and in it gazing, 

Lost myself in idle musing, 

Pleasant thoughts of children using, 
Giving to good necromancy 
Full control of all my fancy. 

As the darkness deepened’round me, 
Shadow-bogies could have found me, 
Sitting, dozing in my arm chair, 
Dreaming it was pleasant, warm there, 
Dreaming that the summer grasses 
Waved to greet the lads and lasses, 
As they raced in joyous frolic 
Through a woodlot gay, bucolic. 

Ah, the beaming of their faces, 

And their lithe and supple graces 


As they ran and jumped and gambol’d. 
As they danced and romped and 
rambled, 

Laughing, singing, crowing, shouting, 
Showed that they enjoyed their outing! 
How the beauties of the wildwood 
Charm the happy hearts of childhood, 

There at noon with many capers 
They spread out some old newspapers 
On the grass, then laid their luncheon, 
And at once began their munchin’— 
Happy e’er is childhood’s dinner, 

All tastes good to life’s beginner, 
And dyspepsy does not ’fright him, 
Victuals do naught but delight him. 

Meat and jam, preserves and pickles, 
Charm the children, and it tickles 





16 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


All the youngsters of all classes 
To munch away at “bread an’ ’lassses”; 
And at picnics—oh, the glory 
Ne’er was told in song or story 
Of the good taste of the cooking 
Done by mammas all good looking. 

But the sunshine shrank and faded, 
And in little faces (shaded 
By the dream-clouds), looks showed, 
tearful, 

They were of coming showers fearful. 
From the denseness of a dream cloud 
Came a clap that didn’t seem loud, 
Just a muffled thunder-rumble, 

But it made the children humble. 

Then the rain came pouring, gushing, 
Then the children all came rushing, 
But to hail and snow the storm 
turned, 

And the summer glad and warm 
spurned 

The cold only just one minute, 

For the snow 7 - soon wrapped within it. 
All the little trouble faces, 

Froze them stiff there in their places. 


And the biting storm it filled me 
With a coldness that soon chilled me 
And I felt a dreadful stinging 
As of nettles to me clinging, 

And I felt a weak’ning numbness, 
And an overpow’ring dumbness, 

So I fell and could not utter 
One poor word, not e’en a mutter. 

And I heard the awful moaning 
Of the children dying, groaning, 
While the pallor and the starkness 
Of the snow sank into darkness; 
Then a yell, like shout of Hindoo, 
Just outside my office window, 
Brought me back from Dreamland’s 
features, 

Back to Earth and earthly creatures. 

And I found I had been dreaming, 
While the erstwhile cheerful gleam¬ 
ing 

Of my fire had sunk to ashes, 

And old Jack Frost’s chilly lashes 
They had stung my toes and fingers 
With a keenness that still lingers 
In rheumatic pangs and twinges, 
And they “creak upon their hinges.” 




Good bye, Winter! Bye, old boy! 

We turn to Springtime’s beaming joy, 
In Iowa; 

Fair Spring, wtth garments new 7 and fine, 
With winning smile, and grace divine, 
And budding promise, we are thine, 

In Iowa. 






































































SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


17 



Vxttnxt fxxxm mixmnx^ 


(A Mother’s Day Poem). 

I sat’ neath the shade of a hanging 
vine. 

On the bank of a purling stream, 

In a pleasant vale where the warm 
sunshine 

Gave a smile with every beam; 

And I gazed where the landscape, 
fair and bright, 

Kissed the sky in the purple haze, 

And let my soul out on a musing 
flight 

Through scenes of other days. 

In charm-led vision it ranged down 
through 

Wonderful, glorious years, 

Through days that in beauty smiled 
’neath the blue 

Of the canopy of the spheres; 

Through days that were troubled 
with strife and toil, 

Through hours of danger and 
storm, 

Through Vanity’s glitter and much 
turmoil, 

Till a picture gathered in form. 

A thousand incidents passed in re¬ 
view 

Within sight of my raptured eyes, 

Till the various picture in fancy 
grew 

From the Earth to the spendid 
skies, 

And swept o’er the firmament vast 
and stark, 

In myriad gleams of light, 

That darted and leaped through 


shadows dark 

Like shooting-stars through the 
night. 

Memories bitter and memories sweet 

Were portrayed with magic hand, 
From midlife’s strength to the wav¬ 
ering feet 

That bor e me in Babyland; 

From the present time’s impressive 
hour 

Back into mists of the past, 

Where memory faints in the dreamy 
bower 

That faded away too fast. 

And I felt the swaying of cradle¬ 
time. 

Heard low, sweet words of song, 
Saw a face like an angel’s, sweet, 
sublime, 

Near me the whole day long; 

And I seemed to live in a dreamy 
calm, 

In a realm of radiance, 

And every touch was as soothing 
balm 

’Neath that fond, ecstatic glance. 

But the charm-filled picture faded 
away, 

Except the transcendent face, 
Which floats o’er me still like a joy¬ 
ous ray 

Of love from the star of grace; 
And the fondest visions of memory 

Linger around its smile— 

The glories of beautiful memory 

Endure in its smile. 


Iowa, with, skies of blue, 

We are lovers, me and yon. 









18 SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 



A pretty vision of a happy land 
Swept past me in my daylight dreams; 

Swept past, delayed, and then returned— 

A land of sunny founts and streams, 

Of vernal hills and dells, displayed 
Beneath a high-arched rainbow’s brilliant band. 
• 

The rippling music of a thousand rills, 

The carrol-notes of many birds, 

The purr of tiny waterfalls, 

And cheery trills of pleasant words 
From voices soft within the walls 
Of crystal mansions, echoed o’er the hills. 

Small lakes with turfed shores and waters clear, 
And rippling wavelets tipped with light, 
(Where splendid swans in stately pride 
E’er swam, a vision of delight), 

Lay beautiful on every side, 

Gay-dimpling here and there and far and near. 

And gardens clothed in Eden’s fairest bloom 
Peeped out in genial radiance 
Through vistas glistening, and from dells 
And deep retreats where merry dance 
And song resounded oft to swells 
Of music borne on zephyrs of perfume. 

And all was happiness—nought to alloy! 

No shadow for a moment e’en 
Abashed the rare aurora that 
Diffused o’er all its cheerful sheen; 

No thought of gloomy sorrow sat 
For one small moment there to check the joy. 

It was a vision of the bye and bye; 

Bright faces by the score were there 
Of friends beloved in the past, 



SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


19 


And in those bowers they looked so fair 
I knew the vision could not last,— 

Like other dreams ’twould vanish from the eye 

Indeed it fled, as dreams will ever fly, 

That glad and radiant vision; 

The happy throngs and music soft, 

The vales and flowers elysian, 

And leafy vine-shades hung aloft, 

Are gone, in all but fancy’s memory! 


Final, final, with turn in lire bnal, 
gmun lim sumnter stream, 
listen In tire snngbird’s nn 1 b, 
Talk, and r^ari, and rimam! 




Come to my arms, O queenly June! 
You are mankind’s fairest boon 
In Iowa; 

My heart of hearts is blythe and gay, 
When you smile, dear June, and say! 
Would to gracious you could stay 
In Iowa. 





































































20 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 



Garlands of beivitching flowers 
Given us in blessful hours 

Are friendship’s roses rare; 
Chaplets of all pleasing hues, 

Sweet blossoms bright and fair, 
Perfumed with the honeyed dews 
Of everlasting joy! 

Fragrant they, in beauty dight, 
Blooming e’er through day and night, 
Bidnging to us heart’s delight, 

Free from all alloy . 


(foalrappfe Wl 


Dainty blossoms now are hanging 
Like a thousand little fairies 
On the Crabtrees’ thorny branches, 
And the passing wind it carries 
Sprays of perfume from their faces 
On to every passer-by. 


And the fragrant odors coming 
From the tossing boughs so sweetly 
Charm the soul as well as senses 
With a spell that binds completely 
O’er the heart a glow of graces, 

That we’ll not break without a sigh. 








SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


21 


Tl 


I c 



Last night I dreamed of my boyhood— 
A homely kind of a dream! 

I was down in the old south pasture 
Milking the bell-cow “Cream”; 
While the twilight stole down softly, 
And my thoughts they lived again 
In the romance fields of youthtide— 
God bless the dream! Amen! 

Ah, the hopes that lit the future! 

They came, a splendid stream, 

Like the rich milk from the udders 
Of good old faithful “Cream”; — 
Such visions of wealth and greatness! 

And her whom I loved best 
I fancied among the fairies 
With face the loveliest. 

And I pictured stately mansions, 

And grandeur, all my own, 

And my thoughts fled thru air-castles 
As they many times have flown; 
And I dreamt and built till the jingle 
Of “Cream’s” old sweet-toned bell 
Told that I had finished milking, 

But when, it did not tell. 

I stroked her soft flank gently 
As if to apologize, 

And sat for a moment longer 
Looking into the skies; 

And she turned and licked my forehead 
Just as she used to do, 

In her honest, dumb affection, 

And uttered a gentle moo. 

Close by were the brindle heifer, 
Brown calf and yearling steer, 
And over there in the corner 
The Jersey bull, Ahmeer, 


While “Topsy”, “Rose” and “Mary” 
Were huddled near the bars; 

The dew was falling over all, 

The moon swam with the stars. 

I arose and looked around me, 

And felt the cooling breeze, 

And watched the shadows gather 
Weirdly among the trees, 

And let the spirits of fancy 
Play on my throbbing heart 
From a fantasy of wonder 
The most enchanting part. 

And then I watched for a moment 
The quiet little herd, 

And the muffled tone of Old Cream’s bell 
Was all the sound I heard; 
Barefooted I, clothed carelessly, 

A boy of moods and dreams,— 

But the dream it passed and I awoke 
To the morning’s sunlit beams. 

And as I heard through the window 
The bells from the fields afar, 
Softly and sweetly tinkling, 

Like notes from a guitar, 

Again I thought of the pasture 
Where I used to sit and dream. 
Milking “Topsy,” “Rose” and “Mary,” 
Aud the good old bell-cow “Cream.” 

Today I review the failures 
That have fallen to my lot, 

And bring to mind the triumphs, 

Ah, none have been forgot! 

But through them all, the pasture 
And the tinkle of Old Cream’s bell 
Come like a dear old story, 

Too sweet for tongue to tell. 







22 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


IJoglfg ©Id Trick ^rrtkrg 


How jolly it is tew think of one’s childhood, 

And all the gay sports of those happy days, 

In barnyard and alley, on school ground, in wild wood, 

In all sorts of rompings and frolics and plays, 

But the jolliest thing on our farm was the donkey, 

Old Jack, whose ears were a foot long or more— 

They could stand up as straight as a liveried flunky, 

Or droop till the ends of them dragged on the floor; 

Our meek-eyed old donkey, our shaggy, gray donkey, 

Our little pet donkey, whose bray was a roar. 

I’ve shot fire-crackers when they proved a fizzle, 

And you know what it is tew try them again 
Tew see if they aint even good for a sizzle, 

And they burst in your face, causing anguish and pain! 
I’ve eaten green apples, and also gooseberries, 

Sheep sorrel also, and chewed slippery elm, 

But none of these things, not even choke cherries, 

Could the ardor of youth so completely o’erwhelm 
As a kick from that donkey, for the feet of said donkey 
Could hoist a prize pumpkin clear out of the realm. 

I’ve hunted wildcats down in Bill Thompson’s timber, 

Swam race after after race in the old swimmin’ hole, 

And wrestled and jumped till my joints were as limber 
As a lariat or a humorist’s soul; 

But the liveliest times of which I remember, 

And I recollect plainly, notwithstanding time flies, 

Were during the first trosty days in November, 

When ridin’ Old Jack for the mere exercise — 

Old Jack our t rick donkey, our somersault donkey, 

A donkey that was up to most any surprise. 

Old Jack he looked meek, with eyes of mild lustre, 

And a calm, kindly face, like an old patriarch, 

But he could wake up with a cyclonic bluster, 

Take aim with his heels and demolish the mark, 

And resume his composure in less than a minute, 

Munching away at the oats in his box; 

And in bucking and jumping no broncho was in it 

With Old Jack—not at all! and the steam-hammer knocks 
That came from that donkey, that little old donkey, 

That hatchet-toed donkey, would pulverize rocks. 




SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


23 


Old Jack, in his day, was a strong, patient worker, 

Did his full share and never was sick, 

And e’er and anon when hitched up with a shirker 
He e’er and anon was sure tew kick; 

But his Red Letter days were those in November, 

When the weather*was crisp and the ground it was hard, 
When of our whole family I was the member 
He churned in his antics out in the barnyard; 

Our stubborn old dondkey, our dexterous donkey, 

Sometimes he would throw me as flat as a card. 

But Jack loved us all, from grandpa tew baby, 

And when one was gone he would be as homesick 
As when parted long-time from his teammate, Old Abie, 

And would run tew meet us with movements as quick, 
Upon our return after absence protracted, 

And would not go away till he got a caress! 

Simple Old Jack! that’s the way that he acted— 

And, gents, jest the same, I am here tew confess, 

I miss the affection of that humble old donkey, 

Old Jack, whose ears were a foot long or—less. 



O joy! the harvest time has come, 
And reapers they are going some, 

In Iowa; 

Our grain will soon be in the shock, 
A bumper crop, now I should talk! 
The farmer is cock of the walk 
In Iowa. 









































































24 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


and i\\t (HxwntQ fair 


There’s a tuggin’ at my heartstrings, Bill, when Fair time comes 
around, 

And I jest sorty wanta be the first man on the ground, 

And tew see the folks a cornin’ jest a stragglin’ fust along, 

Till they thicken tew a pushin’, rushin’, eager, happy throng; 

Then I like tew mingle with ’em as they rush from this tew that 

Tew find the things that seem tew be the most worth lookin’at, 

And crowd about the things that they're most interested in, 

Or argy ’bout the trottin’ hosses they expect will win. 

I like tew loiter ’mong the things in Exhibition Hall— 

The posies, curiosities, the trinkets, one and all; 

I like tew see the fixin’s that the women folks have made, 

For though I look a little rough, I dew jest like tew wade 

Threw fancy work and pretty duds, like wifie loves tew make, 

And tew see the handsome cookin’, the bread, the pies and cake, 

Also the appetizin’ jars of pickles, jam, preserves, 

And other things tew tease the taste and tickle up the nerves. 

I like tew see the veg’tables they bring tew win the prize, 

And the “Live Fair” has the best that grows beneath the skies; 

The corn and grain and grasses, and the fruit and all sich things— 
Jest a wantin’ for tew see ’em makes me want tew mount on 
wings 

And fly over tew the fair ground, in the hours of early morn, 

When the pumkins are a shinin’ in the rows of wavin’ corn, 

And the straw piles are a layin’ up like heaps of burnished gold 

On the farms all through the country, bespeakin’ wealth untold. 

I like tew see exhibits from the pupils of the schools, 

The picturs, maps, and essays, and the work they do with tools. 

I like tew see the pet stock, and the chix, the dux and geese, 

The fine hosses and slick cattle, and the sheep with heavy 
fleece, 

The hogs and sich, adult or young, of every breed of stock, 

And tew see ’em judged, while the expert gives an interestin’ 
talk. 

I like tew see the races, whether trot or run or pace, 

For hoss flesh is my hobby, and nothin’ beats the grace 



SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


25 


01 ! thoroughbreds up on the track, a workin’ for the start, 

A pickin’ up their nimble feet, with elegance and art; 

Now off they go, whizzee! Oho! a scootin’ down the track, 

And purty soon a throwin’ dirt on the home stretch cornin’back. 

Machinery exhibits of every sort and kind, 

Some hitched up tew power, all in a whirl and grind, 

And the auto cars and keerages displayed in fine array, 

I 1 ixt up attractive lookiin’, jest take my eye—but say! — 

Jest tew change the subject, Bill, now aint it nice tew swing 

On the ocean wave,” or “shoot the shutes,” or some such sort 
of thing, 

And tew see the side shows, and the games, and vaudeville and sich, 
While rattlin’ the loose change in your pockets, feelin’ rich, 
Imaginin’ you’re young again, with Mary by your side. 

When yew was coaxin’ of her for tew be your winsome bride. 

Say, Bill, one reason why I like the good old county fair, 

There’s where I first saw Nellie, with her glint of raven hair, 
And her rosy lips of beauty, and her cheeks jest like a peach, 

And her eyes, dark, big, luxurious, that jest most seemed tew 
reach 

Down in my soul, and take a holt, there with a grab hook grip, 

Like as of ’twas there for keeps, and never more tew slip. 

Since then the fairs that we’ve been tew are counted by the years, 
And we’ll count a heap more of ’em tew, if nothin’ interferes. 

I like tew see the street parade of merchants’ rigs and floats, 

I like tew hear the cornet band and keep step with its notes; 

I like tew be on hand tew greet the country school parade, 

And cheer the float my deestrict sends, and treat tew lemonade 
The teacher and the scholars tew, God bless 'em, every one, 

From this here minute right along till their days of life are 
done. 

A county fair, or any fair, if it is rightly run, 

Is mighty educational, along with all its fun, 

And I’m out today, a boostin’ for te.w git the crowd tew go, 

And tew take along exhibits, and help put up a show 
That’ll be an inspiration and help tew each and all, 

So that the best fair on the list will be our fair this fall. 


26 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGIiBELL CHIMES RY UNCLE HO 


®xxx Sxrri Hmxsx Vwnxxxz 


Go! O Song! back to the ’6 0’s, 
When Iowa’s western prairies 
Were a garden of wild flowers, 

A broad fairyland in springtime, 
And a heaven in the summer, 

And a paradise in Autumn, 

When the daisy and the gentian 
And the wild rose bloomed in beauty 
On the million sod bound acres, 

Mid the bluejoint and the gumweed, 
And the bunchgrass green and 
pretty; 

When the prairie hen and wild duck 
Reared their broods nor feared the 
huntsman, 

And the rivers teemed with game 
fish, 

Beaver, muskrats, mink and otter; 
When in spring and early winter 
Birds of passage filled the heavens; 
When in autumn the dry grasses, 
Ripe and sere, were set on fire 
Through mischance or lawless pur¬ 
pose. 

And the rampant prairie fires, 

Like a thousand tortured demons 
Struggling in the gloom of night¬ 
time, . 

Swept the plains with madding fury 
Prom horizon to horizon; 

When the fierce and raging blizzard, 
In the weird and lonely winter, 

Drove the snow so fast and furious 
That the drift would make one dizzy, 
And oft blinded the wayfarer, 
Causing him to grow bewildered 
And to wander weak and weary, 

Numb with cold, distressed, disheart¬ 
ened, 

Happy if he did not perish; 

When the gray wolf, fierce and 
scrawny, 

Roamed in freedom o’er the prairie, 


Seeking plunder in the darkness, 
Oft a menace and a peril, 

And at night aroused the echoes 
With his fiendish yips and howling. 

And when thou hast sung the 
beauty 

Of those prairies wild and lonely, 
And the hardships and the dangers 
Which in those days they presented, 
Sing, O Song, of the homesteader, 
Hardy toiler, brave and honest, 

Who with pluck and sturdy manhood 
On those prairies first located, 

On his tree-claim or preemption, 

In his humble sodden shanty. 

O that house so warm and cosy, 

O that shelter for the loved ones, 

The dear wife and romping children! 
Those sod walls! Ah! every layer 
Of the sod as they were builded 
Had the warmest benediction 
Of the God who loves the courage 
And the manhood and the spirit 
That inspire the heart to grapple 
With the destinies of fortune 
In a new, unsettled country! 

O sing not of mossgrown castles, 
Beetling tovrers nor dark dungeons! 
O sing not of ancient Egypt, 

Nor the luxuries of Asia, 

Nor the deeds of ancient Romans, 
Nor of battles, nor of conquests; 
Sing not of the gods nor heroes 
Of the mystical past ages, 

Nor of life in brilliant parlors, 

Nor of grandeur, pomp nor riches; 
Sing not, Song, of lords and princes, 
Nor of monuments nor ruins, 

But sing thou of the homesteader 
And his sod house on the prairie. 







SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


27 


All! that sod house, dark and 
gloomy, 

A mere black spot on the landscape! 
O what cheer there was within it! 

O what golden light came flooding 
Through the deepset little windows. 
Warm and cosy in the winter. 

Cool and gracious in the summer, 
Better was it than a palace, 

Better than a gilded mansion. 

Sing, O Song, of the erection 
Of the house that was the cradle 
Of the enterprise and glory 
Seen now in the fields and meadows, 
Ample barns and roads and fences, 
Busy towns and pretty houses, 
Scattered out like dreams of beauty 
O’er Iowa’s western prairies! 

And thus the house of sod was 
builded: 

Strips of tough sod, from a furrow 
Broken from the close-grown edges 
Of a slough, were laid in layers 
’Long the sides and ends to corners, 
Earth side up, grass side turned un¬ 
der, 

Until four good walls were finished. 
Then supported by rough timbers 
With a roof the house was covered, 
And the roof was made in this wise: 
First the “rafters,” three long tim¬ 
bers, 

Were thrown lengthway o’er the 
structure, 

And were carefully adjusted; 

Then green willows from the river 
Were laid crossway o’er the timbers, 
Covered o’er with flags and rushes, 
Then of long slough grass a layer; 
This was sheeting clean and ample 
For the final sodden cover, 

M'ounded up to shed the water. 

One rude door was all the en¬ 
trance, 

Light went in at two small windows, 


One at either end inserted; 

And while building this rude dwell¬ 
ing, 

The homesteader and his dear ones 
Camped like Gypsies in their wagon, 
In their wayworn “prairie schooner,” 
That had brought them from New 
England, 

From the old home back in York 
State, 

Or some point less far to eastward. 

In this humble home their baggage 
Was bestowed as well as could be; 
On the wall a few old pictures 
Treasured from fair days of child¬ 
hood, 

Saved from out the sale at auction 
Just before they started westward; 
On the shelf some books and trinkets 
Dear to each one of the household— 
And the clock, their old timekeeper, 
With the Bible standing by it. 

Chests and trunks held clothes and 
dishes, 

A home-made stand was desk and 
table; 

From the roof suspended curtains 
Between the beds were the partitions 
O’er the door the trusty rifle, 

And the fowling-piece beside it, 

With the powder horn and shot 
pouch, 

And the hunter’s knife and game 
bag, 

Made a picturesque appearance, 
Viewed with pride and satisfaction 
By the menfolks of the family. 

Far from woodland or coal mar¬ 
ket, 

Nature had provided fuel 
In the coarse grass of the bottoms, 
Which in bundles tightly twisted, 
Burned and crackled ’neath the ket¬ 
tles, 

And sent out a warmth as cheerful 
As a more enduring fuel. 




28 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


Thus the early western settler 
On his claim a house erected; 
Thus the pioneer invaded, 

With a heart strong and intrepid, 
Lands to settlement thrown open, 
And was there to welcome others, 
With his house and little cornfield, 
Patch of grain and herd of cattle. 


In such humble habitations 
Lived the pioneers like gophers, 

Yet in those very homes were nutur- 
ed 

Virtues such as hardly prosper 
Mid the luxuries and languor 
Of a home life rich and splendid. 
From those humble homes a culture, 


Such as womanhood and manhood 
Of the nobler sorts, there issued. 

O the christain, sturdy manhood, 
O the womanhood there fashioned! 
Pillars in our statehood structure, 
And in social life, and commerce, 
Enterprise and education, 

Strong and mighty in their virtue, 
Bounteously blessed with wisdom, 
Noble, true, the souls of honor. 

Bless each flitting recollection 
Of the sturdy, brave homesteader, 
And his sod house on the prairie! 
Bless our pioneers, O Master! 

Thou who lov’st the noble hearted, 
Thou who noble hearts created! 



Cutting corn is all the go, 
September is now here, you know, 
In Iowa; 

The silos, they are being filled, 

The county fairs are being billed, 
And most of us are happy-willed, 
In Iow r a. 











































































SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


29 


^Bnxv iljt liiuBxkxx 


Bury the “knocker” out in the woods, in a great big hole in the 
ground, 

Where the bumblebee bumbles and the woodpecker pecks and the 
straddlebug straddles around; 

No use for the “knocker,” you can’t get him to boost, 

He’s too impractical, stingy or dead. 

So bundle him off to the bumblebee’s roost 
And bury him heels and head, 

And cover him over with a great big stone, 

Then hurry away and leave him alone, 

And let him hammer and pound and knock 
Till the judgment day on that great big rock. 




The pulse it is the strongest, 

And one’s lease of life the longest, 















































































30 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


(Mux mintx TCcmurtes 


Pardon, friend, my idle dreaming; 
Pardon, if I fail to greet you, 
Seeming distant, absent minded; 
Pardon, for this strange abstraction! 
For today in recollection 
Once again I tread the pathways, 
Once again I climb the hillsides, 
Once again I see the waters, 

Once again I feel the gracious 
Shade and comfort, and the beauty, 
Of my old haunts on the Cedar— 

Days of old, on the Red Cedar! 

Queen and fairest of all rivers! 

Once again I see the basswoods 
Strong and graceful in their beauty, 
And they sigh a mystic language, 
And emit a pleasant fragrance, 

As the summer winds caress them. 
Lifting in their arms transparent, 
Tossing boughs and hanging blos¬ 
soms. 

Once again I see the maples, 

Sturdy oaks and swaying poplars, 
Grand old elms and drooping willows, 
Of the Cedar river wildwood. 

See them in fond recollection. 

Grimly stalk the giant shadows 
In the morning through this wild- 
wood, 

As the breezes from the river 
Coax the great trees into swaying 
To and fro in grand abeisance; 
Proudly in their solemn silence 
Move the shadows hither, thither, 

As the stirring winds of evetide 
Push and crowd among the treetops; 
And at noon among the thick boughs, 
Even when the days are hottest. 
Cooling draughts are always moving 
Like the soothing breath of fairies. 

Clear and sparkling lays the river 
With the sunlight bright upon it, 


Only where a hill abruptly 
Lifts its brow of scraggy limestone 
And throws shadows o’er the water, 
Or the basswoods, leaning outward, 
Spread reflections on the river; 

But the stream is just as pretty 
In the shade as in the sunlight. 

When the robe of night is fallen, 
And the moon deploys her splendors 
O’er the surface of the water, 

Then the black bass and the sunfish, 
Full of playfulness and frolic, 

Leap into the mellow moonbeams, 
And enjoy the night-time’s fresh¬ 
ness, 

And absorb the fresh aid needed 
To support them on the morrow 
When in deep pools lowly hiding 
They seek refuge from the anglers 
And the fierce glare of the sunshine. 

Sing, O song, of the Red Cedar 
And its fairy-peopled woodland, 
Where the green ferns and wild flow¬ 
ers 

Grow in all their native beauty, 

Grow in wonderful profusion! 

Feast, O isoul, upon the beauty 
Of the bluffs and rugged hillsides, 
Fashioned in the splendid sculpture 
Of the Artist of the Ages, 

Into thousand times ten thousand 
Landscapes that delight the vision; 
Feast, until the joy of fullness 
Is a rapture of elation! 

Here the bonny lads and lasses 
Love in picnics to assemble, 

Love to scamper o’er the greens¬ 
ward, 

Eat their luncheon ’neath the shad¬ 
ows 

Of the great trees widely spreading, 
And take boatrides on the river. 






SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


81 


Here the young man and the maiden 
Love to stroll in days of summer, 
While the goldfinch and the robin, 
Warbling thrush and gentle linnet, 
Pipe and chatter in the treetops, 

Sing and twitter in the bushes; 

And the lovers, bird and human, 

Peel the comfort and the beauty 
Of this playground in the shadows, 
Of this park by nature fashioned. 

Here the town-worn man and woman 
In July and torrid August 
Love to spend a long vacation, 
Tenting in the quasi-forest, 

By some spring, or rill, or bluffside. 

Each and all can play or ramble, 
Rest upon the gracious greensward, 
Swing at ease in drowsy hammocks, 


Take a plunge in the cool river, 

Wade or fish or go a-boating, 

And enjoy sweet nature’s pastimes 
In this pleasant nook of nature. 

Go, O friend, when winds of summer 
Dally with the playful leaflets, 

Go when sun and cloud commingle 
In a partnership of beauty, 

To the banks of the Red Cedar! 

Go and see another Eden, 

See another Vale of Cashmere— 

Yes, and fairer far than either! 

You will then forgive my dreaming, 
And will be yourself a dreamer, 

Full of charming, happy visions, 
Absent minded in the presence 
Of the friends who miss your greet* 
ing. 



Like maiden in her bridal gown 
Is every city, hamlet, town, 

In Iowa; 

E’er beautiful and fair to see, 
And full of faith and hope as she, 
Proud of fair name and purity, 

In Iowa. 











































































32 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 




Iowa, ’tis of thee, 

Fair State of Industry, , 

Of thee I sing; 

State where the tasseled corn, 

Of wealth and beauty born, 

Glows in the purple morn, 

A field grown king. 

State where the school house thrives 
Enriching myriad lives 
Every year, 

I love thy common sense, , 
Splendid intelligence, 

Learned magnificence-- 

Hold them most dear. 

My proud, grand Iowa! 

Or whether grave or gay 
My passing mood, 

I love thy prairies green. 

Thy woods and hills that lean 
O’er streams and lakes serene, 

Thy plentitude! 

Let instrument and voice 
Lend utterances choice 

To swell thy fame; 

Let all thv children dear, 

Mothers that we revere, 

Thy fathers far and near, 

Sing thy loved name. 

Give Iowa a cheer, 

A rousing faithful cheer, 

Give three times three! 

Cheer for her constant gain, 

Broad fields of waving grain, 

Her wealth of brawn and brain, 

Her chivalry! 



SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELI, CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


83 



An Indian Legend of Iowa* 


Brave and stalwart young Vi-no'-waz, 
Chieftain of the proud I-oh'-wahs, 
Stood upon a bluff of limestone— 

High and beetling ledge of limestone— 
And looked down into the valley 
Where his braves were soon to rally 
For the great feast of Mondamin, 

He that keepeth off the famine. 

Tall and green the maize was standing, 
And the rich, sweet ears, expanding 
In the sunshine and the showers 
Showed that the Ghost of Happy Hours 
Blessings breathed on every cornfield, 
On Mondamin, on the corn yield! 

By thousands in their husk-leaves silky 
Hung the luscious maize-ears milky. 

All along the laughing river, 

Manitou, the Mighty Giver 
Had bestowed his riches ample, 

And no foe had dared to trample 
In the cornfields of Vi-no'-waz, 

Nor approach the stern I-oh'-wahs. 
With these reasons for elation, 

Proud and happy was the nation. 


On the morning of the morrow, 

With his hatchet, bow, and arrow, 
Lance and knife and knotty warclub—- 
His I-oh'-wah magic warclub, 

Made of iron wood enchanted 
And by warrior spirits haunted— 

Every chief and brave would revel 
On the dance-ground wide and level. 

And while boasting of the glory 
Won in battles long and gory 
With their foes, the Um-chi-mo'-taws, 
And the brutal, wild Dah-co'-tahs, 
They would yell and dance around the 
Harvest pole, and loudly pound the 
Tom-tom, each brave fiercely painted— 
Dance until the last had fainted. 

Then the maize-ears, sweet, enticing, 
In a quantity sufficing, 

Would by women be fried, roasted, 
Boiled with game, or nicely toasted 
In burnt meal; then every maiden 
Of the tribe, with baskets laden, 

Would pass round the well-cooked, 
steaming 

Corn and meat, with fragrance teeming. 


NOTE—Almost every tribe of American Indians has the story of some famous 
“squaw chief” among its traditions, and many and fanciful are the legendary ad¬ 
ventures of these amazons; and it is said that the story of “Tus-ca-men-ta’’ is not 
only possible, but probable. 

It is believed that Tus-ca-men-ta’s hunting grounds were the forests and val¬ 
leys along the Cedar River, mostly above the mouth of the Shell Rock. The 
“corn feast” of this section was something of a “harvest home’’ affair. 

“Uin-chi-mo-taws. ”—A detached squad of the O-jib-ways. 

“Gitch-i-day-mus. ”—(Big Country), southern Iowa, the ancient home of the 
Osage Indians, and always a beautiful region. 

“Ma-ko-bal. ”—The rich grazing lands between the Little Sioux and Des 
Moines rivers, the most famous buffalo hunting grounds known to the Indians. 

“Wap-si-vo-lun.’’—(Now the Little Sioux), “River of Big Fishes,” so called 
by the Indians, on account of the fabulous quantities of sturgeon and muskel- 
lunge formerly found in its waters. 






34 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


Then the warriors and women, 
Looking proud and grand and trim in 
Savage dress and plumes that fluttered 
Would partake; and loudly uttered 
Exclamations of rejoicing 
Would set e’en the echoes voicing 
Songs and praises—and Mondamin 
Would be victor over famine. 

This would all come on the morrow, 
But out upon the plains, far, oh, 

Far, the piercing vision 
Of Vi-no'-waz made incision 
Toward the westward, toward the 
prairies, 

Where the wild red rose, Mo-zai'-riz, 
Was encamped with Niz-ze-ho'-bel, 

The great chief, her brother noble. 

Just a thought he gave the feast day, 
Just a moment down the east lay 
His glance, then the glad swelling 
Of his heart where love was dwelling 
Crowded out the thoughts of dancing 
Round the harvest polt. Still glancing 
From the valley to the prairies, 

All his thought was of Mo-zai'-riz. 

In Vi-no'-waz’ heart divinely 
Ruled this maiden, and supinely 
Lay the hours when her twinkling, 
Saucy, loving eyes ceased sprinkling 
O’er his soul a spray of sweetness— 
For her bravery, beauty, neatness 
Was this Indian maiden famous 
In the land of Gitch-i-day'-mus. 

Niz-zi-ho'-bel her great brother, 
Rescued once Vi-no'-waz’ mother 
From the tortures of the war-stake— 
Cruel horrors of the war-stake— 

In the land of O-wa- no'-taz, 

Of the infamous Da-co'-tahs, 

In the land of ashes-water 
Where her young men met with 
slaughter. 

Tus-ca-men'-ta, the great squaw chief, 
Was in search of a Ponca thief 


And his dark Dah-co'-tah cronies, 

Who had driven off her ponies, 

While she hunted on the prairies— 
Near the Walled Lakes of the prairies! 
Far she traveled, far she sought them, 
And at last she nearly caught them. 

But the Ponca, O-wen-don'-to, 

With reinforcements turned back onto 
Tus-ca-men'-ta, the brave mother 
Of Vi-no'-waz and his brother, 

Crazy Moose, the reckless rider— 

Both fell fighting close beside her. 
Vi-no'-waz was not hurt severely, 

He was knocked down, stunted merely. 

Fiendishly the Ponca fought her, 
Fiercely raged the ghastly slaughter, 
But not until her braves lay stricken 
Did her heart begin to sicken— 

Still she fought and was not taken 
Until all her strength was shaken 
By the bloody wounds upon her— 
Nushka! but she fought with honor! 

Then the brutal cowards tied her 
To a post—with fire tried her— 

But as they began their cheering, 
There came rushing and careering 
Through the camp a hundred horses 
Bearing Niz-zi-ho'-bel’s forces. 

Soon Dah-co'-tah braves, all ages, 
Fell beneath the fierce Osages. 

Vi-no'-waz soon resuscitated 
Looked upon the foes he hated, 

Saw the stark corpse of his brother. 
Saw in camp his fettered mother, 

Saw the young men, the Osages, 
Coming swiftly for the wages 
The Dah-co'-tah reds had stolen 
From the great chief, Zib-a-no'-lan. 

Sad and weird the fruits of war! oh 
How heavily lays the sorrow 
E’en on savage hearts! Vi-no'-waz 
Wept upon the dead I-oh'-wahs— 

But he laughed when Niz-ze-ho'-bel, 
From the grasslands of Ma-ko'-bal, 





SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


35 


Led his young men, fierce and hearty, 
Upon the Dah-co'-tah party. 

“Niz-ze-ho'-bel, he my brother, 

Thou hast saved my noble mother,” 
Was Vi-no'-waz’ gallant greeting 
To the young chief at their meeting. 
“Father’s wigwam in Ma-ko'-bal 
Is open, come with Niz-zi-ho'-bel, 

Be my guest.” Thus spake the chief¬ 
tain— 

The Osages’ brave young chieftain. 

To their home far to the southward—• 
Bright, green prairies of the south¬ 
ward— 

Stopping not for ceremonies, 

The Osages on fleet ponies 

Bore the rescued brave I-oh'-wahs, 

Tus-ca-men'-ta and Vi-no'-waz— 

Bore away the booty captured, 

Every untamed heart enraptured. 

Cyclones seldom travel faster 
Down the torn track of disaster 
Than coursed then those wild Osages 
Down the trail worn through the ages 
By the passing of the warbands— 
Constant passing of the warbands— 
On excursions, vengeful, gory, 

Daring and depredatory. 

By the sunny Wap-si-vo'-lun, 

By the lodge of Zib-a-no'-lan, 


By the wigwams of his village 
Where his warriors brought their 
pillage, 

There the valiant party halted, 
Triumphant, proud exalted, 

And demanded that the nation 
Give a fitting celebration. 

Warsongs long and loud were chanted 
Round the scalp-post stoutly planted; 
The successful braves were lauded, 
Tus-ca-men'-ta was applauded, 

And Vi-no'-waz pressed to rattle 
Off a speech about the battle— 

Then the dog feast! Its grand nature! 
Expression lacketh nomenclature! 

But Vi-no'-waz cared but little 
For this product of the kettle, 

And toward evening sought the wig¬ 
wam— 

The imposing colored wigwam— 

Of Zib-a-no'-lan, the great father, 

To avoid the boastful brother 
Of the reckless, wild Osages, 

Male and female, of all ages. 

As Vi-no'-waz lightly parted 
The lodge door, out past him darted, 
Like a gleam from the elysian 
Land of dreams, a happy vision, 

And the vision was Mo-zai'-riz, 

The wild red rose of the prairies, 
Zib-a-no'-lan’s youngest daughter— 
Gracefully Vi-no'-waz caught her. 



•O'"'- 




October, so they truly say, 

Is pleasant as the month of May, 

In Iowa; 

Weather’s warm, the skies are bright, 
The trees they are a pretty sight, 

In gold and green and purple dight, 
In Iowa. 














86 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


With voice musical and tender, 

In words that could not offend her, 

The young chief spoke, captivated— 
Spoke for hours, fascinated— 

And his pauses, they were broken 
By her timid answers, spoken 
In low tones of honeyed sweetness— 
Voice of pure maiden sweetness! 

While the maiden listened to him, 

Her coy soul began to woo him, 

Though with outward actions clever 
It was clearly her endeavor 
To appear as only kindly— 

0 strange, strange love, how blindly 
Leadest thou young hearts together, 
Binding them with Cupid’s tether! 

Half a moon Vi-no'-waz stayed there, 
While his mother’s wounds with staid 
care 

Were healed up in good condition 
By the able camp physician; 

And the days were full of sunshine— 
Brightest kind of lover’s sunshine! — 
Great with joy the days were laden 
For the young chief and the maiden. 

Zib-a-no'-lan grandly blessed them— 
With an old chief’s warm heart blessed 
them— 

When they spoke to him of marriage; 
Then he offered safe, free carriage 
For Vi-no'-waz and his mother, 


Under guard of the chief’s brother, 

To the River of the Woodland 
Tus-ca-men'-ta’s nation’s goodland. 

When the feast of wild strawberries 
Had transpired, then would Mo-zai'-riz 
Be with pomp escorted thither, 

And Niz-ze-ho'-bel would be with her. 
Thus the Indian lovers parted, 

Son and mother homeward started— 
With dispatch they made the journey 
Back to their own woodlands ferny. 

They were cheered with lusty pleasure, 
Cheered unto the fullest measure, 

By the hordes of staunch I-oh'-was— 
And the hearty young Vi-no'-waz 
Was with warmth congratulated 
When ’twas known he would be mated 
With the charming maid, Mo-zai'-riz, 
The sweet wild rose of the prairies. 

While the people of his nation 
Joyfully made preparation 
For the feast of fruitful cornfields— 
Ample and abundant cornfields— 
While the corn the squaws were 
cooking, 

He stood on the high bluff, looking 
O’er the flower-waving prairies 
For his coming love, Mo-zai'-riz. 

As he looked he fell to musing, 
Through his inmost soul infusing 


i ''M 


i /si 



Would you like to gaze on Paradise? 
Then look around! Just use your eyes, 
In Iowa; 

The fields abound with stacks of gold, 
The hillsides gleam with wealth untold, 
Gardens of Eden here unfold, 

In Iowa. 











































































SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


37 


Bright thought-pictures of the beauty 
Of Mo-zai'-riz, of his duty 
As a husband to the fairy 
Fate permitted him to marry; 
Thinking of her thus he chanted— 
Scarce above a whisper chanted: 

“She has eyes of hazel sweetness, 

Eyes that beam with love’s complete¬ 
ness, 

And the swaying of her tresses, 

And her every motion blesses, 

Blesses with a charmed motion, 

Adding to my heart’s devotion 
All the pleasures of love’s gladness, 
All the pains of lover’s madness. 

“Like the sunfish in the river, 

In the shallows all a-quiver, 

Where the pebbles gleam and sparkle, 
When no floating cloudlets darkle, 
Flash her eyes, with beauty glowing, 
All her lovely nature showing 
In the language of her glances— 

In her soul-enriching glances! 


“Her soft foot-fall’s like the rabbit— 
Every movement, every habit, 

Like a bird or harmless creature, 
Lacking naught in any feature 
That would win a rugged lover; 

E’en the stars that shine above her 
On clear nights give her the honor 
To flash all their rays upon her.” 

Then o’er the prairies he descried her 
Escort coming; soon beside her 
Rode Vi-no'-waz on a prancing 
Snow-white broncho, and advancing 
With her, introduced with witty, 
Happy words, his young wife pretty, 
And the people of his nation 
Their voices raised in adulation. 

And the feast to rich Mondamin, 

He that wardeth off the famine, 

Was spread out before the noble 
Warriors of Niz-ze-ho'-bel; 

With the wedding feast ’twas blended 
And with double joy was ended. 

Long o’er the wild and brave I-oh'-wahs 
Ruled Mo-zai'-riz and Vi-no'-waz. 


Tip FardHTtrp 


There’s a time to laugh and a time to weep, 
There’s a time to wake and a time to sleep, 
And aye a time to dance! 

There’s a time to think of solemn things, 

And a time for thought to fly on the wings 
Of Pleasure’s gay advance. 

Then, heyoh! let us whirl and glide and swing, 
To the thrill of the harp and the fiddle string, 
Now while we have the chance, 

For to-morrow morn may come with a cloud. 
And Grief’s wail be borne on the winds aloud, 
0 now’s the time to dance! 





38 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 



A kindly faced old gentleman I met upon the train, 

Spoke feelingly, with moisture in his eye, 

“You’ve lived in Westgate, Iowa? My boy, I can’t refrain 
From wishing you a mansion in the sky, 

For you surely know the pleasures of a stroll in Corbly’s Grove, 
And of picnics with the youngsters there, and all the happy drove. 
0 where e’er I chance to rove, 

1 remember Corbly’s Grove, 

It was there 1 met my sweetheart years ago; 

She was pretty as could be, 

And proved always true to me, 

Her voice was like an angel’s, sweet and low.” 

He told of jolly gatherings ’neath the spreading oaks that shade 
The banks of gentle Stowe creek’s winding stream, 

Of picnics that the young folks had upon the fairy glade, 

Of lover’s talk and lover’s happy dream, 

And while he spoke he shook my hand in warm and friendly way, 
A smile upon his line old face, and once again did say, 

“0 where e’er I chance to rove, 

1 remember Corbly’s Grove, 

It was there I met my sweetheart years ago; 

She was pretty as could be, 

And proved always true to me, 

Her voice was like an angel’s, sweet and low.” 

He asked of friends of other days, of some now dead and gone, 
And some still living in the neighborhood; 

While nearer to life’s sunset he looked back upon the dawn, 

And mid youth tide’s recollections dear he stood; 

A rose was on his aged cheek, from warmth within his breast. 

As once again he said to me, with earnest, graceful zest, 

“0 where e’er I chance to rove, 

I remember Corbly’s Grove, 

It was there I met my sweetheart years ago; 

She was pretty as could be, 

She proved always true to me, 

Her voice was like an angel’s, sweet and low.’ ’ 


j 



SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


39 


He told of swings and games and romps and luncheons in the wood, 
With boys and girls now roaming with the blest; 

Of quiet strolls with her he loved, with her so fair and good, 

While they talked and planned at Cupid’s dear behest. 

“And so you’ve lived down there, my boy? You love the dear old 
place?’* 

This he asked, so wistfully! then said, with gentle grace, 

“0 where e’er 1 chance to rove, 

1 remember Corbly’s grove, 

It was there I met my sweetheart years ago; 

She was pretty as could be, 

She proved always true to me, 

Her voice w T as like an angel’s, sweet and low.” 

At length we reached the station where we had to say good bye, 

I noticed that he tapped the window pane 
And I looked out where he pointed as be gave the low, glad cry, 

“See? my sweetheart’s here to meet me at the train!” 


And when he’d kissed his aged wife, still charming fair to see, 
He proudly smiled, and, turning, called in farewell back to me, 
“0 where e’er 1 chance to rove, 

1 remember Corbly’s Grove, 

It was there I met my sweetheart years ago; 

She’s as pretty as can be, 

She’s been always true to me, 

Her voice is like an angel’s, sweet and low.” 



y >~~ 


Indian Summer days are grand, 

With sunny days and zephyrs bland, 
In Iowa; 

When frosty mornings bright and clear, 
Noon hours full of warmth and cheer, 
And golden sunsets oft appear, 

In Iowa. 
















40 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


(Dxta in Spirit 


Minne-wauken! I gaze 
On thy lustre-flecked breast, 
And its pale sheen conveys 
To my soul’s gloomy rest 
Vague impressions; the night, 
And the spectrelike calm 
Of the moon’s pallid light, 

Like mystical balm 
Casts a spell o’er thy wave— 
O’er thy legended wave! 

Through the vapors I see 
Flitting forms as they dance 
In fantastic revelry 
Over thy swells; they advance 
In mysterious lines 
Between Earth’s sombre plain 
And High Heaven’s confines 
In lights that swell and wane 
With the gleam of their eyes— 
Changing gleam of their eyes! 

They’re the spirits of those 
Who’ve sunk ’neath thy waves, 
Those who in death repose 
’Neath thy current which laves 
And caresses their forms— 


Spirits that linger, loath 
To depart, and in swarms 
Dance along on the growth 
Of thy shores near their dead— 
Near the bones of their dead! 

Now in shade, now in light, 

They alternately glide, 

In a crazy, wild flight, 

And ne’er deign to abide 
For a moment in place:— 

Zephyr-tossed and bestrewn 
They engage in a race 
By the light of the moon, 

And in wildered flight vie— 

In phantasmic flight vie! 

They dance along on thy shore, 
Like light sylph-shadows blown, 
And in concert deplore, 

With a resonant moan 
My intrusion, while I 
Stroll along on thy strand, 

And my steps in reply 
Soft-resound from the sand. 

As I moodily dream— 

Lonely, moodily dream! 



A mother’s is the warmest heart, 
In life she acts the sweetest part 9 
It is most truly said; 

A mother’s is the fondest tear 
1 hat falls upon the coffined hier 
From mourner e’er dead . 




SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


40 



Hear the singing of the sickle— 

Teeth of steel, 

Cutting down the golden grain in a happy, wild 
refrain, 

That applauds the farmer’s gain! 

How it tinkles, tinkles, tinkles, 

In the morning hours bright; 

Flow it twinkles, twinkles, twinkles, 

All the day until the night, 

While the reel 

Passing o’er the nodding grain with an airy light 
refrain, 

Seems to thrill 
With the shrill 
Chirrup of the flying sickle! 

Oh, the music of the sickle, sickle, sickle, sickle, 
sickle, 

How it cackles with delight 
While the sunshine’s glittering sheen 
Dances 

With a thousand winsome glances 
On this jaunty steel machine— 

With many a coy reminder 
On the sturdy, bright new binder, 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the rattle and the prattle of the sickle, 

To the utter joyful flutter of the sickle, 

Of the sickle, sickle, sickle, 

To the music of the merry, cheery sickle. 


Hear the sickle in its glee— 

Hear it ring! 

What a world of richest wealth, what a world of 
food and health, 

Does it bring! 

As the beaded sweat it trickles 
Down the farmer s breast it tickles 
Him, for don’t he hear the nickels 
Klinking, klinking, klinking, 

And all in tune? 

What a liquid ditty floats 
Over barley, wheat and oats, 

To the prairie hen that listens while she gloats 



42 


Summer rimes and sleighbell chimes by uncle ho 


On the stubble she will soon 
Forage for her meals! 

What a gush of euphony voluminously peels 
O’er the broad and ripened fields as the fairy 
reaper wields 

Its power o’er the yields 
Of the harvest’s princely boon! 

How it swells! 

How it dwells 

On the future! How it tells 
Of the rapture that impells 
To the loud and gladsome ringing 
Of the sickle, 

Of the sickle, sickle, sickle, 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the sickle! 


Hear the chorus of the sickles— 

Over hills and in the dells, 

What a tale of joy and thrift their turbulency 
tells! 

Oh, the drawing of the twine with a motion half 
divine 

Through the attachment neat and fine 
That binds bundles with such grace, 

And every one in place, 

Each movement is a poem in itself! 

Not a fairy, nymph or elf, 

Of river, land or ocean, ever moved with lighter 
motion, 

And this pretty binding notion, 

How it dances 

As the good machine advances— 

Through timothy and flax and rye, 
Humming singing merrily, 

While the harvest hands rejoice, and with 
whistled note and voice, 

Join the sickle’s jocund cheer, 

Sweet and clear, 

For the grain is cleanly cut and the bundles nice¬ 
ly bound! 

Ah, happily they listen to the sound. 


Hear the laughter of the sickles— 

Merry chimes! 

Not a sob, nor sigh, nor groan, not a muffled 
monotone, 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


43 


Comes from gnome or fiend or ghoul 
With a grief for heart or soul, 

For the Spirit of the Times 
Rolls a paean from the sickles; 

He dances and he sings, he chirrups and he rings, 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the sickles, 

And he halloos and he yells, 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme 
To the paean of the sickles, 

And lustily proclaims that he who sows and 
reaps 

Is the noblest work of God, 

And he gambols and he leaps 
Over stubble, over sod, 

To the flashing and the clashing of the sickles, 
And in a glad acclaim, 

And in language e’er the same, 

He announces loud and clear 
That the harvest time is here, 

Aye, the Spirit of the Times 
Swells with merry annimation, 
Throughout all the happy nation 
And he rhymes and he chimes 
With the paean of sickles, 

As in a hundred phases 
He gives voice unto the praises 
Of the farmer’s work and skill, 

Of the husbandman who worketh with a will 


Oh, the sickles, sickles, sickles, 

How they clang and clash and ring, 

What a melody they fling 

On the bosom of the palpitating air, 

As the reaper old or new, 

As the reaper strong and true, 

Chatters round the harvest field so fair! 

Ah. the rich and radiant harvest— 

0 

The full and glorious harvest 
That the sickles cut with glee! 
Merrily the farmer’s soul is swelling 
While the sickles keen are telling 


44 


SUMMER RIMES AND SLEIGHBELL CHIMES BY UNCLE HO 


Of the bounty God has given from the bosom of 
high heaven 

To the tiller of the soil 
In the cheery, gay turmoil 
Of the sickle, 

Of the sickle, sickle, sickle, 

In the utter joyful flutter of the sickle. 


NOTE —This poem, as many will notice at a 
a glance, is fashioned from that beautiful poet¬ 
ical production, “The Bells,” by Edgar Allen Poe. 
“The Sickle” was written in harvest time, 1894, 
while the writer was in a whimsical mood. Its 
publication in the literature circulated by the 
McCormick Harvester Company created a wide 
interest at the time, and it was heralded as “the 
companion piece of The Bells,” a distinction I 
had not dreamed of, and which I more than ever 
feel is a little too complimentary; however, the 
popularity and the importance of the theme, 
and the oddity and melody of the composition, 
clothed partly in my own fancies and partly in 
the fancies of the most fanciful of American 
poets, the immortal Poe, has given it a distinc¬ 
tion that has led me to revise it and publish 
it again.—H. P. B. 


Our horses are the fleetest, 

And our girls, they are the sweetest, 
In Iowa; 

Good angels always hover 
O’er the care-free and the lover, 

And we’re all in corn and clover, 

In Iowa. 








I 



4 




LIBRARY OF CONGRI 











